


The Raven Spoke My Name

by agiaoftyrosh



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, animal speech, gratuitous dream sequences, idk how much my Bran interpretation matches what he supposed to be on the show, implied theonsa, this is a bit of a fix-it fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-04 04:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15834066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agiaoftyrosh/pseuds/agiaoftyrosh
Summary: Bran and Theon take turns reminding each other of who they really are.





	The Raven Spoke My Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luth/gifts).



> The first three scenes are meant to take place during show continuity. We didn't see them, but they could have happened! The first is between 5x7 and 5x8, the next is during 6x4, third is during 7x7 immediately after the return from the dragonpit and before the conversation with Jon. The last and most speculative is of course between seasons 7 & 8\. Some of the scenes are heavily inspired by (one might almost say "directly ripped off from") certain book scenes which didn't make it into the show. I did not much care for how Bran was portrayed in s7 so this also acts as something of a fix-it fic in that sense.

**Once**

 

He did not know why he had returned here.

It was almost comfortable, here in the godswood where the hot springs steamed. Outside, in the castle's courtyard, the cold had pierced Reek's filthy rags as though they weren't there. His fine tunic and cloak from that night had been a different matter, but it was better this way.

_Robb Stark's wedding clothes_. If you looked, you could see where the punctures had been expertly mended. Why had he looked? His master would not have told a lie. _He would! He would if the lie hurt more._ It was wrong to think such thoughts, but they had been coming to him with dangerous frequency in Winterfell.

The clothes had been taken from him, and warm as they had been he did not want that burden back. He was Reek again, with some small freedom for a time, for his master had a new toy to occupy himself. No one had stopped him from wandering the castle. He should be as contented as it was possible for a Reek to be. He was, of course, more miserable than he had been since the day he had handed over his people to be flayed, maybe more than the last time he had been strapped to the saltire.

_Leave her alone,_ he thought miserably, the thought bubbling up irrepressibly, _take me back if that's what it takes but leave her alone. Sansa has done nothing, could do nothing, to deserve this. Not like me_. Not Reek's thoughts. There was another name. Ramsay had brought it back up, cruelly, the name of someone else, someone who shouldn't exist anymore, someone who must be pushed back into the darkness or...

"Theon!" Reek flinched at the raucous cry, and looked around, terrified. A flutter of dark wings alerted him to the presence of a raven, perched in the branches of the weirwood. There should be no ravens in Winterfell, he had killed them all, black bodies piled in the courtyard for burning, for what? So that Robb would not hear of the deaths of his brothers? Reek did not know, his head hurt and he did not want these memories. _Robb knew anyway_ , came the unbidden voice, _or thought he knew, by the end_. What had he said, when they told him Bran and Rickon were dead? Reek shuddered as a new thought occurred to him. What would Bran and Rickon think, if they had seen him wear their dead brother's clothes while their sister...

He stepped back, eyeing the black bird among the red leaves. "No, not... I'm Reek, the turncloak is... I'm Reek." Reek, who had never ridden to war with Robb Stark, had never dreamed of one day marrying a beautiful girl named Sansa.

Had never met two boys named Bran and Rickon, had never burned two little bodies...

"Theon!"

"Shut up!" He stumbled backwards, away from the bird as it flapped to the ground in front of him. How did this bird know that name? How was there still a raven in Winterfell...? But there would have been others, he realized. This one had been elsewhere, with the Manderlys or Mormonts or Reeds, and had returned to find its comrades slaughtered. That must be why it was angry with him. Mustn't it?

"I'm sorry," he told it, "I'm only Reek." That was what he had told _her_ , when she begged for his help, and she hadn't listened, and look what had happened. _Theon would have done something else. Theon would have made it stop_. "Only Reek." He felt tears on his cheeks. Theon would never have let anyone see him cry, ever, not even a bird. It hopped closer, tilting its head to look up at him; then, almost inquisitively: "Theon?"

_Theon would tell her that her brothers still lived._

Reek did not know from whence this last thought sprang--surely it could not be from within his own head--but it was too much, the ice too thin. This place, this bird, were traps, and he turned and fled as fast as he could on his wounded feet.

 

**Twice**

 

He would be safe if he could only find a raven.

The trees blurred by silently in black and white as the horse sped silently under him. He had heard the baying of the dogs before on his way west to Deepwood Motte, but only ever in the distance, and they had always faded before, never grown closer. The birds, too, he had seen, and had always followed them when he did. He did not understand why he did so, except that they knew his name. _His name!_ He had finally paid the price to recover it, he must hold onto it now. But he needed the birds. He had to keep running, so he could keep his name, and the secret of where Sansa had gone. It was good that they followed him, it was what he why he had left her, why he hadn't tried to hide his trail, not good to be caught. He had a sword, and horse from the Bolton man he had slain. A Bolton horse. A shiver went up his spine. The horse was one of _his_ , and it would betray Reek.

The moment the thought came to him he felt the beast slow, though until then it had been speeding through the untracked wilderness as fast as Theon had ever ridden down the Kingsroad, racing with Robb and Jon. He cursed it, panicking, and when it began to turn he understood. He flung himself off into the falling snow, and for an instant thought he was free, as he had been when he and Sansa had flown. Then he felt himself caught in the air, sharp brambles snatching at--yes, he had taken a cloak from the dead man to disguise his rags while he rode, and now it had betrayed him too, wrapping him up and holding him in suffocating warmth until he fought and kicked his way free into the icy air. Too late, too late, for Ramsay was drifting casually towards him, smiling, behind him an indistinct blur of men and dogs. Theon searched the treetops. He thought there were dark shapes in the upper branches, maybe, but he could not make them out.

"Are you ready to come home, Reek?" _Do not look at him. Those pale eyes..._ But Ramsay was standing in front of him now and there was no escape. There was only one way out left to Theon, one way to keep his name. He fumbled for the dead man's sword at his waist (though now, it was only a dagger) and pulled it free. As Ramsay and his boys watched in amusement, he slashed across his own throat as hard as he could, but there was no pain, no blood. Desperately, as the sounds of mirth increased, he tried to stab his heart, his wrists, his belly, even a death by disemboweling would be better than Ramsay, but the blade bounced off him again and again as if it were a dull stage knife from a mummer's play. Then iron fingers were gripping his thin wrist, twisting it until the blade fell useless from his remaining fingers. "Oh, Reek," Ramsay said softly, a spot of moisture at the corner of his mouth, "Just look what you've done to the fine clothes I've given you." He looked down automatically, and saw to his horror that the slashing knife had only cut his own rags off, leaving his hideous wreck of a body open to the gazes of all the laughing men around him. "Don't you know that your skin is mine to cut and mine alone?" He reached out and stroked Theon's cheek, the caress gently and effortlessly peeling back skin. Reek cried out in pain. There were indistinct shapes on the middle branches of the trees now. _Help me._

"My--my name is..." He tried to regain some scrap of dignity, but he could not say it with those pale eyes upon him.

"Little Theon!" The man who appeared from behind Ramsay was horribly familiar. "Why are you trying to cover yourself? You've got nothing to hide." _It's him_. It had been years, but Euron's mocking smile was not easily forgotten. Theon tried to step back but the snow was too thick, and he stumbled and fell. He could see the shapes in the trees more clearly now, hanging from the lower branches, and the forms were not avian. "It's no use, little Theon. Look what I have!" He yanked, and there she was in his arms, her red hair wild, her wide blue eyes meeting Theon's. Sansa Stark moved her lips, but nothing came out. "You can't manage anything, Reek," said Euron with Ramsay's voice. "Look what you've done." The burned bodies hanging from the trees creaked, their deformed mouths moving in time with the words.

"Sansa, Sansa, I'm sorry, I failed again!" The words burst from him in a spasm of agony and he reached for her hand as she struggled, but Ramsay wrapped his cloak around her and then she was gone.

"Too late! Time for you to come home now. That's what you told her, isn't it? Come home so you can face your punishment." Ramsay--or was it Euron?-- stepped forward, spreading his cloak. Theon tried to crawl away but the little faceless children were all around him now, and though their bodies were burned their touch was colder than ice. Panicking, the snow whirling about him fast as his heartbeat, he tried to roll away--

\--And crashed onto the hard stones of the sea tower of Pyke.

For minutes, he could only lay where he had fallen, gasping and clutching the cloth of his tunic. _I must look like a landed fish_. But this felt like where he belonged. It wasn't right for Reek to sleep in a bed. His master would be less likely to hurt him when he found him like this.

This thought, and not the cold (he had kicked his blankets away at some point and they were now on the other side of the bed) was what propelled him off the floor and sent him staggering to the window. Theon threw it open and stared down. He couldn't see the waves under the mist, but he could hear them crashing against the rocks. _I am on Pyke_ , he thought, _Pyke and not the Dreadfort, Pyke and not Winterfell. Home._ He breathed deeply, concentrating on the smell of the salty air as the drizzle mingled with his tears. But he was still shaking.

Theon cast a glance back towards the door of his bedroom, half expecting to see it open and Ramsay standing in the doorway, but of course it was still closed and locked. He lowered himself onto the wide window ledge, holding onto the frame like a lifeline. He could not return to the bed Yara had insisted he sleep in. She had told him that he was free now, that the Boltons could not send ships here without being seen and challenged. He knew she was right, but there were leagues of difference between knowing it in his head and believing it in his guts. _He will always be coming for me._

And wasn't that what he deserved? Yet he was too much a coward to face his punishment again. Theon looked out over the drop, shivering. He was safe only so long as he could hear and smell the ocean below. Ramsay, even the phantom of his nightmares,  could not follow him there. So why not make the escape, for good and forever?

The idea took hold with a vengeance. Theon played with it as he leaned further out, imagining the rocks far below. He could put an end to all of it, right now, Reek and Theon Turncloak together. _I could never have been like Father in life, I know that now, but I can imitate him in death_. Wouldn't that be amusing? _Would he appreciate it, or would he be angry to see the same crabs who devoured his flesh consuming mine? They wouldn't care that I was an unworthy son._

So why not?

What did waking existence have for him except for a sister who distrusted him, an uncle who terrified him, a world which hated him? He would not have to face Euron if he died tonight. He would not have to sleep again.

It was as he was pondering the last point that the hurricane of shrieking feathers slammed into his chest, knocking the wind from him and sending him sprawling back onto the hard floor.

"Theon!" The raven screamed, hopping back and forth on the window ledge, wings spread wide. "Theon Theon Theon!"

He blinked at it owlishly from the floor. "I looked for you in my dream." The bird flapped noisily to the floor beside him. Theon wondered if he were dreaming still. "I'm sorry," said Theon to the raven, "I'm broken and weak. I can't stand any more punishment."

It cocked its head. "No punish."

Theon scooted up until he sat with his back against the wall. "Why am I still alive, then, if not to be punished? What use does the world have for me? I have to face my uncle at the Kingsmoot. I have to speak for my sister. She does not trust me," he explained. It felt good to talk to the bird, even if it was only a dream. He could say things he could never tell a man or woman in waking life. "She guessed what happened at Moat Cailin. She even suspects this is a trick, that Ramsay sent me to her. How can I deny it? I suspect it too, sometimes. How can I be of use to her? She does not want me. The only one..." He thought he was going to laugh, but the ghastly noise he choked out sounded more like a sob. "The only one who ever really wanted me was Ramsay. And he made sure no one else would, ever again."

The raven sat silently while he shuddered and wept. Eventually, apparently running out of patience, it flapped onto one of his drawn up knees, turning its head to the side so that one of its eyes stared directly into one of his, only inches away. Theon gasped slightly as its claws dug into his knees for purchase. The bird did not _feel_ like a dream.

"Sansa," it croaked, "Sansa Stark."

Theon twitched in surprise, sending the raven squawking back to the flagstones. "Sansa!" She had _wanted_ to take him to the Wall. She had thrown her arms around him and embraced him. She had told him he was worthy of forgiveness. "I couldn't go with her. Not with Jon Snow there." Snow would have wanted his head. Sansa would have defended him. Once, she had told him she would have done to him what Ramsay did, and he had not believed her. _She would not._ Not her, no matter how much he might deserve it. But he had believed it when she said she would speak for him to her brother, and Theon could not allow that. Jon had never liked him, and the Wall would have made him harder over the years, and it had been his _youngest_ sister that Jon was most attached to. Sansa had twice married the enemies of the Starks, and Jon might blame her for that, or he might not, but in either case she would have a harder time with Theon Turncloak in tow. So he left, taking no pains to hide his trail, so that if Ramsay's men came upon it they might follow him and not seek for the others. But they had not found him... "I don't even know if she's still alive. If she's safe." He buried his face in his incomplete hands.

"Alive. Safe."

"I want to believe you." Theon raised his head again to examine the raven. It looked completely ordinary. "But you're no ordinary bird, are you? And I don't think this is a dream anymore."

"No dream."

"Then I saved her. I'm not completely useless, because I saved her." A growing sense of wonder was displacing his despair. "What are you, anyway?"

"Bran!" And then the beady eyes turned white, only for an instant, and then the bird was out into the open window in a flurry of shrieks and feathers. Theon picked one of them up in wonder, turning it back and forth in the growing morning light. Then he climbed to his feet, squaring his shoulders. He would help his sister. He would at least prove to her that he was Ironborn.

 

**Thrice**

 

He had been here a thousand times before. The flames were always here, flickering, nauseating, though this time the mast had not been replaced with an immense X. The ship pitched under his feet but he could not move to balance himself, always about to topple to his knees, but something was different now. The rolling movement of the waves slowed, and stopped, and Theon found himself able to look around himself for the first time. Euron and Yara stood before him (sometimes it was Ramsay and sometimes Sansa, though mercifully never at the same time, not since he had learned what Sansa had done) and though he could not make himself step forwards he could examine them. Euron was laughing, smiling eyes mocking as he held the axe against Yara's throat. Theon thought he could see a trickle of blood where the blade met his sister's skin, causing his gorge to rise. He looked into her eyes, wanting to say something, but her expression clearly said: stop apologizing and _do_ something.

"Theon." This calm voice had never come into his dreams before. "There wasn't anything you could have done." Theon turned his head. The boy had grown tall and straight, standing on his own two feet, and his gaze was dispassionate as he examined the violence all about him. He was, nonetheless, instantly recognizable.

"Bran." And then he stopped, too many questions jostling in his mind.

"I'm the Three-Eyed Raven now," Bran continued, "If you had charged him, he would have slit her throat. Then he would have taken you."

A chill settled over Theon at these words. Nonetheless he had to speak. "If you really are Bran, I saved you once, before--before I was broken. I stopped the wildling who would have taken you captive." He did not know if he could do the same, now.

The boy nodded placidly. "With a bow. I don't see a bow here." There was something unsettling about Bran. His reaction to the scene was all wrong. The boy had watched Theon as he hacked again and again at Rodrik Cassel's neck, his screaming and sobbing filling his ears as thoroughly as the blood from the botched execution had covered his clothes and hands and face. But even the bird had shown more emotion than this apparition. "I'm here to tell her you can still save her. You _have_ to save her. You have to stop him. He's sailing to Myr to hire the Golden Company. You can't let him. It's important. That's what I came to tell you."

There was remarkable detail to this dream. Theon could see the swirling grain of the wooden planks beneath his feet. "Even if this vision is real... You can't... I'm a coward. You can't rely on me for brave deeds. I... What if I break again? Euron--he reminds me of... what if even saving Sansa was a fluke?" The question had haunted him. He was still not sure he understood what had happened to him that day on the ramparts. He knew only that risking Ramsay's wrath had for an instant become a less terrible prospect than staying, a slave, forever. _And having to watch_ her _become what I am_. Whatever inconstant spark had been lit, it had gone out the night of Euron's ambush. He forced himself to raise his eyes, meeting the Three-Eyed Raven's cool, intent stare. He could see so little of the happy, vivacious boy he remembered. _My fault? Would he be so cold and distant, if Winterfell had not been taken?_ Yet he saw no sign of anger or dislike. He saw no emotion at all... and it was _wrong_ , it was a fresh hurt, another fragment of his old life changed beyond recognition. It felt like sand washing away beneath his feet. He could manage only a whisper. "I'm so afraid."

Bran met his gaze. For several moments, he seemed to be searching for something himself. Then: "Father once told me that's the only time a man can be brave. When he's afraid. You can be brave. I've watched you."

 And there was _something_. Theon straightened a little. "That's more like the Bran Stark I remember."

...And in an instant it was gone. "I can't be Bran anymore. I'm the Three-eyed Raven." And without warning, he was gone, the boat and fire and water dissolving until Theon opened his eyes, his real ones, back on Dragonstone.

 

**And then I called him his name back**

 

Theon stood on the deck of his ship--his ship!--savoring the feel of the wind and the sparkling of moonlight on the waves without the desire to cast himself in for once. He remembered the cleansing sting of salt water on his wounded face. Theon still felt all right, not invincible perhaps, but not as though every moment was a struggle not to fall apart. He didn't know if his strength would hold when he confronted Euron again--wouldn't know for sure until the moment came--but with his own people finally behind him, it felt like maybe he had a chance. And that was enough to let him take action.

Enough, even, to reach out in other ways.

Theon turned away from the railing, wrapping his cloak around himself. It was growing chilly even here on the Narrow Sea. Most of his men were below decks now, but Theon sank down to the wooden planks, his back resting against a pile of rope. He had slept in harder places, after all.

"Bran," he said softly, as he had every night since his departure from Dragonstone, "Bran, are you there?" It had stopped feeling foolish after the first night. Theon wondered if he even had the same capacity for humiliation as before Ramsay. _Or perhaps I'm just mad_. Even so, he could lose nothing by trying, but if it worked...

Bran was alive, as was Arya. He remembered when Jon had gotten the letter. Sansa's letter. He had wanted to ask more, about her, but he knew she was alive and that had to be enough. "Arya has returned home," Jon had told him, coolly polite, "Along with Bran. I thought you deserved to know that, at least."

There had been a space then, a silence where the name of the last little brother should have been. Rickon was another of Theon's victims, as much as if he had fired the arrow himself. And that was leaving aside the first brother, the eldest, the most painful wound of all...

Something of this must have been on his face, for Jon had softened slightly. "Arya is fiercer than ever, apparently, and now she really can use a sword. As for Bran, he dreams of the future and spies on our enemies through the eyes of birds. Or so I'm told." Jon's brow had furrowed at that. "Sansa did also mention that he says things sometimes. Disturbing things."

"He isn't the same," Theon replied softly, "Who would be?" And Jon had merely shaken his head and left. There was no more information to be had from that source, yet it had been enough. He wondered if he should have told Jon about his own experiences with ravens, but Jon had not invited such confidences then. Later there had been more important things to talk about, and then there had been no more time. He must find his own way, if possible. There was no weirwood here, but Theon was Ironborn, and being on the ocean was his own source of power.

"Three-Eyed Raven," he murmured to the sky, leaning his head back, closing his eyes, "I would speak with you..."

The stars seemed closer and closer, and he realized he was drifting into the cold. It didn't bother him, though. He felt himself turn solid and hard as beneath him the ocean swept away to the south and east. Frozen and turned into lace for his journey north. He wondered if he still had the salt in his body that had been his birthright, but then remembered that he had made this journey before. The salt would come back when he returned to the ocean.

He was floating over land now, iced over wastes with the occasional village. The castle was unmistakable when he saw it, when he snowed down into the woods and landed before the tree.

"You have been calling me." Theon thought at first that the voice had come from the face in the tree, but then the boy stepped out from behind it. His eyes stared through Theon. "Your uncle is still on the way to Myr. His plans have not changed. Is there something else you want to know?"

_Sansa_ , he thought, but that was not it. "I..." He suddenly realized that he had focused all of his attention on how to get here, into this strange and impossible dream, and next to nothing on what he should say. And Bran was standing by the trunk of the tree, waiting, impassive. Theon suddenly flashed back to a sleepy boy looking up at him, a question asked a lifetime ago. "I never hated you!"

Bran blinked.

"You asked me once if I hated you the whole time," Theon explained, "I never answered you. It took me so long to understand. I didn't know who I was back then. I only--I wanted to be one of you, but I could never say so, not even to myself. I was supposed to be Ironborn. I did it all wrong."

"It's... all right." Bran answered. His brow was furrowed, just a little. "It doesn't matter. It... helped, really. If you hadn't driven us away, I might not ever have made it beyond the Wall. I have the power to stop the Night's King because--"

Theon couldn't take any more of this. "How can you say it's all right? _You_ should hate _me!_ Two of your brothers are _dead_ because of me, along with countless others! And you... What happened to you? Was it something from beyond the Wall?" _Is this my fault as well?_ Theon did not deserve forgiveness, but this wasn't forgiveness. It was an emptiness worse than hate.

Bran's voice was still calm, but his eyes had narrowed ever so slightly. "It is all right because it must be this way. I must be the Three-Eyed Raven. I have things only I can do, just as you must fight your uncle. I can't afford to hate you."

"What about love, then?" Theon challenged. "Sansa needs you. She's lost so much already. Arya, too. Can you be a brother to them like this?"

"They need the Three-Eyed Raven more. Everyone does."

"Can't you be both, then?"

"No, I--" The long Stark face was all twisted up in anguish. "So many people are going to _die_. I can't stop it and I can't save them and if I let myself feel it I won't be able to look. Then I'll fail again and it will be the end for all of us. I have to be the Three-Eyed Raven and keep watch on the enemy and I can't be anything that lets me feel!" The wind began to pick up, lifting red leaves and white snowflakes and carrying them away.

Theon looked away from the tears on the boy's face. "You weren't like this when--when you were the raven. With only two eyes."

"That was before."

"Before what? What happened, Bran?"

"I've told you, I can't be Bran anymore."

The wind began to be insistent, plucking at his clothes. Theon noticed that he was in his old rags again, as he had been the last time he stood before this tree. "There was a time when I thought I couldn't be Theon, that it was too painful. But that was wrong. It made me less able to help... the people who needed me." The tops of the taller trees in the godswood were whipping back and forth, and he understood that he was running out of time. "You are Bran Stark, son of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, brother to Sansa and Arya and Jon and--Robb, and Rickon. You mustn't forget. Please. You helped me remember." He fell to his knees, as much to keep the howling wind from taking him as any gesture of supplication. "How can you defeat the dead by becoming so cold?"

And then the wind went quiet.

Bran's voice was soft and sad. "You think you understand."

Theon shook his head. "I know I don't. I don't know how you can become a raven or see the future. But I understand some things. I don't want you to have lost yourself because of--what I did. I have too much on my conscience already."

"Didn't I already tell you? This wasn't your fault." Bran's eyes made him look as old as Theon felt. "You aren't the only one whose foolishness cost others their lives. Maybe I deserve to pay a price, too."

"You're the one who's not listening!" Theon's own tears were warm on his cheeks. "Maybe you need to be emotionless to fight the Night's King. I can't tell you how to do that, but it doesn't seem right to me. And maybe it's not my fault, but... I still owe you, Bran. You helped me when you only had reason to hate me. I might never have escaped Ramsay if not for you, or I might be dead. So I'm going to help you, if I possibly can."

"I did hate you for a while, you know. Until I didn't. I don't hate you now. But I'm the only one who can do what I have to do."

"But what about afterwards? When the undead are all gone and those who are left have to pick up the pieces? No one will need the Three Eyed Raven then. They'll need Bran, Bran the Rebuilder." Theon smiled at his own wit. To his great delight, he saw Bran's lips twitch just a little at the moniker.

"I don't know..."

Theon pushed himself back to his feet. " _I_ know. If I can come back, so can you. I'll help you and if I... can't, Sansa will, but you have to tell her what happened to you. Jon too, and Arya. You won't be alone. Just try to hold on to yourself, as much as you can."

"You really aren't going to give up on this, are you...?" Now there was a smile, finally, if a very very tired one. "Maybe you're right about becoming too cold. I... think I hurt someone already, because I couldn't _feel_ what I was saying to her. I can't promise anything, not before the last battle. I'll do whatever it takes to win. But after that... I will remember what you've told me." The breeze began to pick up, and though it was gentle now, Theon was lighter and easier to lift. "Did you want to say anything else?"

"Tell Sansa--" it was half out of his mouth before he could stop himself. But he had no right, even now, and he was flying away before he could change his mind.

The steam rose from the hot spring under the heart tree. It was comfortable here, even in the cold of winter. "You'll tell her yourself, Theon." Bran whispered into the white sky.

**Author's Note:**

> music credit:
> 
> Don't give me love, don't give me faith  
> Wisdom nor pride, give innocence instead  
> Don't give me love, I've had my share  
> Beauty nor rest, give me truth instead
> 
> \--Nightwish: "The Crow, the Owl and the Dove"


End file.
